


I Got the Love That Keeps Me Waiting

by alexa_dean



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Background Het, Background Slash, Barebacking, Betrayal, Body Image, Canon Het Relationship, Crying Dean, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Sex, Exhibitionism, Het and Slash, Homophobic Language, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Castiel/Dean Winchester, Infidelity, Jealous Dean Winchester, Jealous Sam Winchester, Jealousy, Lap Sex, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Masturbation, Mindfuck, Multi, Painplay, Possessive Behavior, Prostitute Dean, Prostitution, Rimming, Sibling Incest, Spanking, Statutory Rape, Voyeurism, Wincest - Freeform, implied daddy issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-01
Updated: 2013-07-01
Packaged: 2017-12-16 20:04:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/866073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexa_dean/pseuds/alexa_dean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean’s insecurities run deeper than bullet wounds. Before Dean learned to use his body to distract himself, he’d learned how to use it to distract others, used it to hide behind, afraid of rejection, sure of only two things in his life—that he was John Winchester’s boy and that he was Sam’s big brother—that a single misstep could make him neither and nothing at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Got the Love That Keeps Me Waiting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mekina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mekina/gifts).



> I think I broke my brain with this one. I got this title from lyrics to “Lonely Boy” by the Black Keys (not that I’ve abandoned Fiona Apple. She’s my girl), because the lyrics apply to Dean and Benny.
> 
> "Well your mama kept you but your daddy left you  
> And I should’ve done you just the same  
> But I came to love you  
> Am I born to bleed?  
> Any old time you keep me waiting  
> Waiting, waiting
> 
> Oh, oh-oh I got a love that keeps me waiting  
> Oh, oh-oh I got a love that keeps me waiting  
> I’m a lonely boy"

Little known fact about Dean Winchester, he  _hates_ driving alone.   
  
Miles of black top gets Dean’s wheels turning faster than the Impala can eat up miles, nothing but streetlights and neon signs, and changing topography. There’s no barrier between Dean and his thoughts when he’s like this, his walls paper thin as shoji screens, memories stalking him in the shape of shadow puppets.  
  
Dean’s insecurities run deeper than bullet wounds. Before Dean learned to use his body to distract himself, he’d learned how to use it to distract others, used it to hide behind, afraid of rejection, sure of only two things in his life—that he was John Winchester’s boy and that he was Sam’s big brother—that a single misstep could make him neither and nothing at all.  
  
It became a bartering tool early, a way of making friends.   
  
You see, what people don’t know is that Dean had been painfully shy once—freckles, bow legs, his Dad’s old band shirts much to big for a fourteen-year-old. Yeah, Dean had been a little star struck when the captain of the varsity wrestling team, a  _senior,_  started talking to him during gym class, praising Dean’s athletic  _potential._  
  
He didn’t think it was weird when they’d skip school together to hang out and play Nintendo at his house. Sometimes the guy would even let Dean have an entire bottle of beer to himself. It made Dean feel older,  _cooler._  Gave him an identity outside of his family.  
  
And when he’d made a move on Dean ( _I like you_  and  _can I kiss you?_  And,  _we don’t have to do it, if you’re not ready)_ , Dean had gone along with it, sort of scared but mostly curious.   
  
He’d lost his cherry that freshman year and he wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about it, how he felt about other boys in general. What he felt for girls was pretty cut and dry, everything else, not so much.  
  
The attention had been nice, but it hurt too much, so much so that the guy couldn’t even get it in half-way that first time ( _it’s okay_ ). But they kept trying in the weeks that followed until he finally did and Dean had tolerated it even though he’d been soft the entire time, but the way the guy looked at him afterward, like he was some kind of  _amazing_ , like Dean had  _accomplished_  something awesome, Dean came to  _crave_  that. And the blowjobs he received afterward had been nice too, so he sort of figured that maybe it had been worth it at the time—  
  
At least, until Dean had tried to hang during lunch one day and had been met with inexplicable coldness and the guy,  _Johnny_ —along with his jock buddies—had called Dean a fag.   
  
Dean had put himself out there and was found lacking. Dean pretty much decided then and there that school and everyone in it was utter bullshit. Dean had never been more grateful to move away.  
  
So, when pervy older men propositioned him, willing to pay for his time, Dean felt vindicated knowing he  _was_  worth something, worth the bills he kept for a rainy day in his sock drawer, even when others didn’t think him worthy of knowing.   
  
Cash flow was unpredictable at best and his father wasn’t always sober enough to keep tabs, but Dean was good at keeping Sam clothed and fed and his father happy, or more to the truth, less concerned about them, so he could keep on fighting the good fight and Dean could keep proving he was vital, necessary, worth every penny earned on his knees.  
  
So Dean had fucked himself through twenty-eight states by the time he was nineteen, had to check himself into seedy clinics a handful of times, but never caught anything that stuck.   
  
He thanked God for small favors.   
  
But the first time he’d made love—he was twenty. The first time he’d made love, it was with  _Sam_ , his little brother. So as far as he was concerned, it was the only one that counted.  
  
Thing is, Sam taught him something, taught him Dean Winchester was capable of falling in love, but whether or not he was capable of sustaining a relationship was another matter entirely. And the old adage is true. You never forget your first and for Dean, he never got away. Not that Dean wanted to. What made Sam different, what  _still_  makes him different is Dean just can’t _quit_ him.  
  
Even though part of him never forgave Sam for leaving to Stanford, he knew he had been partly to blame too, that he’d driven Sam away.   
  
The fights had been vicious, still are. He couldn’t tell Sam that he was out earning their keep or that he was scared of him, scared of how he felt, the depth of it. That he had to prove to himself that he  _did_  exist outside of Sam. Or about the fear that he’d fucked Sam up irredeemably because Dean had been weak and hungry and so full of love he didn’t know how else to show it, except  _under_  Sam. So full of love, he’d spend summer days locking Sam up with him until their apartments reeked of sex, until they were shaky because they’d forgotten to eat, until Sam’s friends came knocking and Dean driven by jealousy would  _run, run, run_  into the arms of the next barfly who gave him the time of day.   
  
Sam yelling:  _Where were you? Who were you with? You fucked her, didn’t you? Goddamnit, Dean! God_ damn _you! Am I not enough? Not good enough for the great Dean Winchester? Answer me!_  
  
And Sam would get so angry, so quick to blow up, he’d fuck Dean face down because he couldn’t stand to look at Dean and Dean didn’t think he deserved to look back.  
  
Nearly two decades of hurting one another—never falling out of love—but falling in love with others; Sam shutting him out each time, because he’d never been the type to cheat and Dean never learned how to stop. He’d forced Sam into hating himself—  
  
 _I can’t look in the mirror when I’m with you!_  
  
Because Dean wouldn’t stop pursuing him, seducing him, possessing him with the single-minded obsessiveness he’d inherited from their father.  
  
For Sam there had been Jess and Madison, Ruby and Amelia. For Dean, there’d been Cassie and Lisa and Castiel and, if he weren’t completely a coward, he’d admit to Benny too.   
  
But the most terrible thing, the scariest thing is what Sam and Dean are together; this thing that has killed them both, time and again.   
  
Drunk and—one of the rare times, he’d gotten high off weed (he gets too introspective)-- he’d once tried to describe it to some girl he’d shacked up with for a weekend:  
  
 _You know what it’s like?_  He’d said, taking a long, thoughtful drag and blowing smoke rings, _t_ _o live with it?_   _It’s like—like holding a razorblade between your teeth. Or in your heart—in the meatiest part—if you move or say too much, when you smile or talk or fuck someone, every time your heart beats, you cut yourself wide open. You could drown, you really could, y’know? You could fucking_ bleed _to death. So I had to let him go and not a single day goes by that I don’t want to drive to California and drag his ass back._  
  
She’d looked at him, wide-eyed, too stoned to catch the part where he’d admitted to being in love with his brother. And the part that they used to fuck on a regular basis.  
  
Probably.   
  
 _Wow_ , she’d said. _That’s deep_. They’d watched the ceiling fan for a minute or two. _I want to be loved like that._  
  
Dean had smiled, bitterly.  _No you don’t._    
  
And he’d fucked her till her brains fell out and he was drowning in blood.  
  
For better or worse, Dean is Sam’s and always will be. There is nothing Dean can do to change that. It’s an inherent and involuntary compulsion, like breathing, embedded in that lizard part of his brain that has nothing to do with thought and everything to do with the very basics necessary to life.  
  
He doesn’t think it’s the same for Sam.  
  
So, as far as Dean’s concerned, it gives Dean every right to sleep with whomever he wants.   
  
Logic has never been Dean Winchester’s strong point.  
  
***  
  
Dean thinks he’s got the wrong place, that he can still turn back and run to Sam, but Sam is angry still and Amelia stands between them, bigger than she has any right to be.  
  
Dean knocks. He can all but see Benny bathed in the reflected light of a television he can barely hear, when the door opens. Dean straightens up automatically, shoulders back, head up like his father taught him, sliding into his mask as easily as he sheds his clothes.  
  
“Dean.” Lamplight glances off the tips of Benny’s lashes, the crop of his beard. “Good to see you.” Before  
Dean has any chance to react Benny grabs hold of him in a tight hug. Steam crawls across the ceiling, wreaths around a lazily turning fan.  
  
“Were you planning on staying out here all night, pining after me?”  
  
“You wish.”   
  
Dean refuses to pull away for a moment, tucking his face into Benny’s neck. The vampire is warm from a shower like a summer glow and Dean can almost pretend Benny’s alive. Dean knows it’s weird, him clutching a half-naked man in a towel, but he’s gone through a  _lot_  these last few weeks, so as far as Dean’s concerned, passersby can just suck one.   
  
Benny lets Dean have his way with characteristic graciousness—good ol’ Southern-boy, through and through—then leads him inside, Dean caught in his undertow.   
  
It’s hard to feel awkward around Benny; even though it’s obvious Dean is here on a booty call. And if he’s honest, he’s having a bit of a hard time starting a conversation with the sight of Benny’s bare chest in front of him, dusky coils of hair thick and damp like morning vegetation.   
  
He finds it funny that he knows the exact shape of Benny, the breadth of his shoulders and waist, the weight of his cock, but has never seen Benny without clothing. Not for the first time, he wonders what Benny would have looked like human baked under a summer sun, salt on his skin, what he might have smelled like, a smell all his own and not borrowed from earth or blood or fruity bodywash, for that matter.  
  
“You got anything to drink?” Dean sidesteps, dropping his coat over the nearest chair. He looks around the room: sheets freshly washed, Benny’s boots tucked at the foot of the bed. There’s a book on the nightstand and Dean’s hands itch to flip through it, wonders what interests Benny, thinks he shouldn’t.  
  
“Not for you.”  
  
“What are you, my mother?”  
  
“Someone’s gotta take care of you sweetheart. So yeah, if that’s what you wanna call me. Although  _Daddy_  might have a better ring to it.”  
  
Dean makes a face ( _Really?_  No. Just no. Really big fucking NO) but doesn’t protest, knowing it would only encourage Benny, so Dean lets the term of endearment slide and pretends not to have heard the last request. Because Dean is fucked up, but he’s not  _that_  fucked up. Not by choice, anyway.  
  
So, Dean does what he does best and pushes the buttons of his shirt through the eyelets, lets the shirt slip, catches the sleeve and flings it over his coat. He won’t look Benny in the eye, pulls his tee over his head instead, tossing it aside too. He sits on the mattress and focuses on unlacing his boots. Benny leans on a table to his left, observing Dean with arms crossed over his chest, a peripheral blur of gold and white and eyes gone dark mountain-blue.  
  
“You sure don’t mess around.”  
  
Dean tries for a smirk, but it won’t reach his eyes. He’s tucking his socks into his boots when Benny nudges Dean with his knee, gets a cool hand over Dean’s bare shoulder and another on his cheek. Their eyes meet for a second and Dean can see Benny’s pupils swell up huge, eyes as wide and blue as an open sea. Benny  _gets_  Dean. He knows Dean isn’t here to talk about his feelings.   
  
Dean is here to forget.   
  
He tries to turn away, but Benny holds fast to his jaw. His grip is firm, but his eyes are kind, the curve of his mouth speaks of patience and tenderness.  
  
 _“Let me,”_  he says, slow, honey-like and whiskey-dark, pushing Dean  _down, down, down_  onto bleach-stiff blankets. He touches his mouth to Dean, over his hollowed-out stomach, the jut of his hip.   
  
He sort of hovers there then presses his cheek against the paper-thin skin, dragging his chin over it, scratchy and good until Dean bucks up hissing and he’s rewarded with a cool wet tongue. He sucks softly at Dean’s belly, tugging the skin between his teeth and Dean finds himself wanting to spread, wanting to embrace Benny between his thighs, but turns away and drapes an arm over his eyes in lieu of holding out his arms, because it’s too intimate for Dean.   
  
Not much like fucking. Not much at all.  
  
And not  _at all_  like Purgatory, where Dean remembers looking out through a tracery of limbs and stretched-out darkness and Benny hammering away as hard as Dean had begged for it, the funk of old pennies and grit still wet in the air and thick on their tongues.  
  
Dean’s belt buckle jangles in Benny’s hands and Dean twists a little because it tickles. He bites his cheek and holds his breath, already hard, but growing harder, makes no move, lies there passively. Not wanting any consideration.  
  
He almost falls off the bed when Benny pulls at his jeans, like a magician with a tablecloth, taking Dean’s boxers with it.  
  
 _“Hey!”_  
  
 _“_ You gonna  _knock out on me?”_ Benny’s grin is all teeth and fondness and all for Dean.   
  
Blood blooms in Dean’s face, partly from indignance and partly at Benny’s open assessment, the softness in his gaze, large and unreserved and ruthless.   
  
Benny sees too much, makes Dean want to curl in on himself, tuck his tail and run, because Dean knows this feeling, this vulnerability and he knows the absence that follows and Dean doesn’t want to care, because caring leads to expectations to disappointment and ultimately to rejection.  
  
So, Benny wants a show? Well, Dean is a performer-- the very best, the very  _fucking_  best.  
  
He brings a heel to the mattress edge, knee falling open, his fingertips skimming the length of his cock, too brief to get a rise, but just right to goad Benny. He slips a hand underneath his skull, on full display like he’s done a thousand times before, lets his head loll slightly, blinks catlike, lets his mouth fall open, the way that makes people stop to stare at it.   
  
He’s got a nipple between his knuckles, rolling it, rocking his hips in tandem to every pull. His breathing is quiet, ragged and full of need.   
  
“You gonna stand there all night?”  
  
“So what if I am?” Benny’s gaze crawls over him, so palpable it makes Dean’s skin itch. It feels too much like comfort, like family. “I do what I want, kiddo.”  
  
It raises Dean’s hackles. It also gets him hotter, because Dean is a sucker for punishment and he’s got a thing for willful, authoritative men. And Benny does it for him—scruffy beard and powerful hands, hands capable of holding him down and throwing him around. Dean lets it show, flicks his tongue over the corner of his mouth and watches Benny go suddenly, scarily still in that way only predators can; in that way Dean was counting on.  
  
He goes as far as curling his toes and digging them into the bedspread, feeling slutty and really fucking good, despite the fact that his cheeks and ears are on fire and he hasn’t so much as reached for his dick. He wants Benny’s mouth on his nipples and he leaks at the thought.  
  
Yet Benny’s aplomb is becoming really fucking annoying, really fucking quick. Dean needs to take the edge off, but the asshole is doing nothing to help him out, like he intends to leave Dean like that, hard enough to cut granite and pissy enough to give Sam a run for his money.  
  
“Anytime now would be good.”  
  
Dean is about to say the hell with it all and fuck off when Benny finally makes a move to grab a  _chair_ , careful not to disturb Dean’s clothing and sets it up in front of Dean, like he intends to use it as a barrier between them.  
  
Dean immediately props himself up on his elbows, sort of incredulous. Okay, a  _lot_ incredulous.  
  
“Both feet on the bed.”  
  
“What?”   
  
“You heard me. Legs up, knees open. I want to watch you get yourself off.”  
  
Dean takes a slow measured breath, wondering what sort of game he signed up for and left pretty off kilter. He expected to be a little roughed up and that’s not what he’s getting. He’s beginning to think he should have picked someone up at a bar or picked a fight.  
  
The last thing he expects is for Benny to pull Dean’s belt from Dean’s jeans and even less, the lightning-strike pain across his inner thigh.  
  
“ _Fuck!_  What the  _fuck_ —“ Dean shoots up the mattress, teeth clacking together in his haste, pulling the staticky blankets to cocoon himself. Dean’s eyes gape wide, so wide his face starts to hurt.   
  
 _“What’d you do that for?”_  He kind of wants to squirm or punch Benny in the mouth.  
  
“You were looking a bit distracted,” Benny offers by way of explanation. “And now, you’re  _not.”_  
  
The skin of Dean’s thigh tingles, glows hot and red, as red as the slick head of his cock, which has absolutely no business staying as hard as it is when Dean is in  _pain._  He twists his right hand in the comforter and brings it close to his chest, like armor.  
  
Benny puts a knee to the mattress, the implication clear as the blue of his eyes. Dean isn’t really into that kind of pain,  _per se_. So when he reaches for Dean with one hand, all Dean can stare at is the belt pinned beneath the other.  
  
“ _Don’t come any closer_ ,” Dean hisses and all but spits, baring his teeth, calculating means of escape. He’s got two choices, either vaulting over Benny or hedging to the left, which is equally useless, Benny is that much faster than him. Vampire powers be damned.  
  
“C’mon now Dean. You don’t mean that.”  
  
“Fuck off!” Dean kicks and Benny grabs a hold of his ankle, twists it uncomfortably so Dean is forced to turn on his belly, strips away Dean’s sheets and drags him kicking and screaming across the mattress.  
  
 _“Sonavabitch!”_  
  
“I gave you an order and you ignored it.”  
  
 _“Suck my dick.”_  
  
“I just might, if you beg pretty,” Benny drawls, full of promise and shoves Dean face first against the bed, one hand on his neck—chest gliding over Dean’s back, hair tickling—as he twists Dean’s arm behind him with the other, and Dean’s left half on and half off the bed.  
  
Dean knows where this is headed and he’s not sure he’s willing to follow.  
  
However, one thing Dean is sure of and it’s that he’s  _not_  apologizing, or begging for leniency for that matter. Benny is strong and Dean knows it’s pointless. There’s no way of gaining leverage. Strength aside, Benny is the better fighter anyway (not that Dean will ever admit aloud), has shown Dean a trick or two, quite possibly more if he’s honest.  
  
“Good boy.”  
  
Dean spasms one more time for good measure, snapping his hips forward and away from the press of Benny’s cock riding the crack of his ass, though he spreads his legs for it, wanting more, expecting more.   
  
Dean can't help being easy.  
  
Then Benny is gone, except for a hand on the sway of Dean’s back.  
  
The crack of a belt leaves Dean blind for a second or two and he doesn’t get a chance to acclimate before the next falls, and the  _next_  and the  _next_ , all in quick succession, leather tip snapping between his buttocks across the most vulnerable, deepest part of him and he bucks forward wildly, toes spread wide on the nasty carpet, and teeth tearing into the fabric covering his mouth. He’s white-knuckling it.  
  
He won’t cry out. He  _won’t._  He’s beyond that. Beyond words.  
  
The next strike across his flank is not a belt, but Benny’s hand, quick and loud as a gunshot but no less painful than leather. It’s horribly, terribly intimate, skin against skin, and it racks a tremor from him, having none of the disregard Dean craves. And it stings, leaves his eyes burning. He blames it on the chemical reek of detergent.  
  
Dean is seeing colors with each slap: sleek chrome and ember-red, sunset-orange and salt-white. He’s not fighting it now, he’s pushing back into every hit and every one is aimed where it counts and he can all but see his hole swell up like a welt with every knife-edged jolt.   
  
Tears cling to his eyelashes, drip onto the sheets as he struggles to breathe, each breath shunted back to his face. Pleasure rockets through him and he strains, humping the mattress, desperate for friction. There’s not enough space for thought between Benny’s hand and the scratch of cotton on his dick.   
  
When Benny releases him, Dean is almost sorry. Almost, because he knows what will come will be infinitely that much  _better._  He’s left reeling however, anchorless without the pain to ground him.   
  
He knows he’s crying, except he doesn’t know why, but he won’t let Benny see, doesn’t want him to take it the wrong way, because Dean  _wants_  him.  _Really_  wants him and it has the stink of betrayal all over it because this is not adrenaline, this is not drinking to the bottom of a bottle, like it’s always been.   
  
Mostly.  
  
He reminds himself who Sam's with right this moment.  
  
Benny’s hand lingers, urges him onto the bed, far enough to get his knees beneath him, but not far enough to keep his feet from dangling over the edge, Dean goes with it. Snakes coiling in his belly, spitting and sparking, when he startles at the crush of Benny’s cool mouth trailing a wet patch down his spine, scritch-scratch of his beard trawling over the knobs, the dip of his back, and finally between his cheeks, thumbs pulling him apart, whole body opening up.  
  
Dean’s heart trips in his chest, lurches into his throat, and it’s like he’s got a livewire fusing hole to nuts to leaky tip of his dick.  
  
“That’s it, just relax. Lemme take care of you,” Benny mumbles, barely intelligible and Dean pants and whines kicked-dog-like on the razor-edge of  _not enough_  and  _too much to bear._  
  
“You talk too much,” Dean says, letting Benny lick the tension right out, letting him shove him forward, tongue cutting into Dean like a blade through his heart.  
  
His elbows fold and his head falls, teeth open on his forearm. Benny is pushing into him with his tongue and his thumbs, like he’s trying to split a peach in half, break it open, and Dean accommodates grudgingly at first, because it  _hurts._    
  
Benny’s cool breath is a balm but his stubble is agony. It’s almost too painful, he’s so swollen, ass throbbing magnificently from the spanking he’d never thought he’d like, but Benny keeps pushing deep and Dean keeps pushing back and it feels like Benny’s moulding him, shaping him into something new, something holy, something he’s lost to Sam.  
  
And he’s biting back Benny’s name. Delivered by the grind of warm wet promise. Benny’s groans pushing deep in his belly until there’s no room inside Dean, only drumming fingertips and wayward tongue digging into his aching flesh, not nearly deep enough, but pleasurable all the same.  
  
But this right here, right now, is about the most intense thing ever. Dean’s so sensitive from pain, so hot for a careful, gentle touch. What is there left to do, except to face-plant into the bed and hold himself open?   
  
And it pays off royally, because he’s moaning so loud Benny starts stroking the backs of his thighs and shushing against his hole. Dean’s kind of out of his mind right now, rocking back and forth, sort of incoherent with the building pressure in his belly and he can’t believe it, can’t believe it could be like this and he might, he just  _might_  be able to come without stroking his cock at all, or any prostate stimulation. It would be a first for him and he’s not sure he’ll be able to stop himself.  
  
It’s  _good_ , so good, feels himself relax and flex, flex and relax to the quickening of his pulse, the deepening of his breaths and not a hand on his dick. He’s thrusting back, deep and eager and desperate, beyond pride or reason, above humiliation. Benny’s cheek catch-gliding over the curve of his ass, but he’s done feeling like he’s trying to diffuse the ticking bomb in his chest.   
  
His jaw tightens and his abdominals flutter. He likes this, the rough imprint of stubble on him, the artless application of teeth, thinks he can get off on this, just this: the sound of his own labored breathing and Benny’s supple mouth, every curl of his tongue less _on_ than sidling  _in_. There is much to be said about a vampire tongue.  
  
Heart blundering and bounding, about to leap out of his mouth, Dean rubs his face all over the sheets, like a cat spreading his scent.  
  
It comes on like a seizure, a blazing fever, because he’s lost all control of his muscles, his voice, his thoughts and he just might die from it. He’s between space and time, formless and full of light, and he’s pretty sure he’s managed to astral project out of his body, because he can’t feel a single thing, except where Benny’s wiggling inside him, prolonging the aftershocks of his orgasm.   
  
He’s too busy recovering to notice Benny has stopped his ministrations and he’s fallen halfway off the bed, his come sticky against his chest.  
  
“Oh,  _gross_.”  
  
“Did you just  _come_?”  
  
“Um, no.”  
  
“You came.” It’s not a question.  
  
Dean is on the far side of mortification, he also can’t move.  
  
“You came and I never—“  
  
“Dude, your harshing my afterglow.  _Quit it_.” Crawling, Dean settles on the fresh side of the bed and sprawls on his back, suddenly, inexplicably cold. He’s not supposed to be here. “Hey, you wanna—“ he’s midway to rolling on his stomach or offering a blowjob, when Benny stops him, crushing him with his weight.  
  
Dean is suddenly, ridiculously terrified, he’s got his hands against Benny’s chest holding him off, but Benny has already hooked Dean’s bent leg over the crook of his elbow, spreading him open, stretching him on the tip of his cock,  _sinking, sinking, sinking_  and Dean is fighting, legs scrambling to find a grip, but Benny is still slick with water or sweat and all Dean manages to do is unfold and fall apart.  
  
They’ve fucked, many times and in many ways, but they’ve never done this, not like this, not  _face-to-face_.  
  
“No.” Dean is going to throw up. He doesn’t want this, not this way. He  _doesn’t_. It’s too much like—like—  
  
 _“Get off me!”_  He shoves this time, but Benny takes his wrists and slams them on either side of his head. It speaks of violence, but his eyes—his eyes are imploring and shiny bright.  
  
“Don’t,” Dean whispers.  
  
“Please.  _Please_ —let me. Just this once.” He’s inside Dean.  _Inside._  All the way. No  _take-backs._  
  
“Don’t do this,” Dean is trembling from adrenaline. “I can’t.”  
  
“You can,” Benny whispers against his jaw, rolling his hips. “You can.” He won’t stop moving, slow and gentle, nudging Dean, kissing his throat, stroking Dean’s wrists with his thumbs, his reverence brutal.  
  
 _“I don’t want to.”_  
  
“You  _will_.” Dean sees the shape of Benny’s words, the ones implied— the ones that have nothing to do with what Dean wants or deserves to hear; the ones he can’t afford.  
  
Benny’s skin seems to be absorbing all the light in the room and reflecting it back, his chest and hips slip-sliding against Dean’s and Dean’s nipples catching on crinkled chest hair; Dean’s dick twitching, painfully overstimulated between them.   
  
Dean can’t help but turn his face to stare at the digital numbers on the clock, read the spine of the book in front of it (The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, huh) focusing on time and place and anything that doesn’t have to do with what’s happening to his treacherous body, because that’s all Dean is, all he’s ever been—just meat, senseless and dissolute. But it’s not working, not with Benny’s hands sliding over his, palm-to-palm.  
  
This is all  _Sam’s_  fault, because Dean would not have come, not if Sam hadn’t shut him out. If he hadn’t left Dean for Stanford to be rejected by Cassie, or if Sam hadn’t shacked up with Ruby leaving Dean alone to attach himself to Cas, if he hadn’t made Dean promise to make a home with Lisa only to come back, forcing Lisa to make the choice for Dean and Dean to take her memories; if Sam hadn’t left him to  _die_  in Purgatory.  
  
Nothing more left for Dean to do but move, breathing hard— blooming, searching, wanting Benny’s mouth, his regard, his unconditional affection, and the cut-strings of his beard brushing his cheeks and his chin and his lips, for one more night.  
  
 _I hate you,_  Dean thinks, but he doesn’t know its target, maybe everyone or maybe it’s no one in particular, but more than likely it's himself.  
  
Sensing Dean’s capitulation, Benny lets go of his hands, follows the long lines of Dean’s sides to curve around his ass-cheeks to probe the burning ring of muscle there and his own hard length inside and Dean groans like he’s wounded.   
  
He’s half-hard, raises his knees and crosses his ankles over Benny’s back and slips his arms around Benny’s neck, pulling him down into a kiss, letting Benny in and pulling at his tongue, wanting it in his throat and stealing the air from Benny’s lungs and huffing it back through his nose.  
  
Yeah. Dean knows it’s a mistake, but he’s never been able to veer around them, can only barrel through. Won’t start now.   
  
So when Benny lifts him to sit on his lap and snaps his hips into Dean, gaining real estate with every bounce, Dean goes with it, hitching, seeking friction against Benny’s belly. Benny makes it soft and rough and sugar-sweet, like the swipe of his thumb over Dean’s cheekbones, like the kisses over Dean’s lips.   
  
There is no  _mine_  in the way Benny’s holding Dean, only  _have_ , only  _be._  
  
“ _Shhh_ ,” Benny says, “Don’t.” And for a moment Dean’s confounded, when he realizes he’s been crying, soundlessly and Dean’s head has become a terrible weight, so he drops it to Benny’s: brow-to-brow and eye-to-eye. It’s Dean’s turn to be selfless, to give back what is given freely.   
  
So he stops fighting and gives Benny what he needs, but won’t steal. Finding a rhythm. A purpose. No room for pretense. Holds himself upright by digging his fingers into Benny’s shoulders and rides like he has someplace to be and no place to go and Benny has a hard time tracing sigils on the points of Dean’s hips.  
  
Dean’s thighs burn, the welts on his ass sting, his knees abrade, but he fucks right through it all, determined to set things right and make it  _good._  Writhing and rebounding like he’s spring-loaded and all Benny can do is say Dean’s name like it’s a blessing.   
  
Harder, faster, and Benny’s hands clasp over Dean’s skull and he’s moaning into his mouth and he comes, slick and sudden, his sighs tangling in Dean’s hair and Dean comes too, a long sinuous release like he’s falling asleep.  
  
They collapse together and Dean holds Benny inside, like he’s keeping secrets. His legs feel like jell-o and the rest of him isn’t faring any better. He’s also having a hard time catching his breath with Benny on top of him.  
  
“Hey,” Dean says after a while. He’s a royal mess. “I need a shower.”  
  
“Dean.”  
  
“I do.”  
  
Benny rolls off and Dean winces.  
  
“Stay. Jus' for a little while?”  
  
Dean closes both eyes, turns on his stomach, taking a moment to think. He’s broken so many rules already. What’s one more?  
  
“Hey . . . you okay? I'm askin', not tellin'."  
  
Dean opens to it, to eyes bright as galaxies. Benny kisses his back, the skin over his shoulder blades, fingertip dipping in the sweat of Dean’s lower back, down to his hole, to slip inside where it’s wetter still. Dean thinks it’s kind of nice.  
  
“Okay,” he answers, “But don’t get used to it."  
  
~THE END~

 _ **SEQUEL**_ : **[Heart Made of Parts](http://archiveofourown.org/works/875995)**


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